


steam engenius

by zombeesknees



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-16 19:27:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16960098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombeesknees/pseuds/zombeesknees
Summary: Unexplained deaths in Berlin, and the Doctor and Rose Tyler aren’t the only ones on the case… | Written for/winner of Challenge 35 at then_theres_us on LJ many moons ago.





	steam engenius

_**Berlin, Germany: 1886** _

It was difficult to move. Which made sense, considering the chains. Proper, solid, no-nonsense chains they were, too, clanking in an ominous way as she moved her arms. No one could claim that they were anything but real metal. They were bloody heavy, too; her right shoulder ached from the strain of standing straight whilst draped in the iron links whilst _also_ balancing in heels. 

Everyone talked about how impressive Houdini was, but _he_ didn’t have to do his stunts in heels.

Still, it was a step up from that table she’d been strapped to last night.

“As you can see, La Belle Rose’s arms have been securely locked,” he announced in a voice designed to carry all the way to the balconies. He was really enjoying himself, she could tell—there was always that little twitch at the corner of his mouth when he was especially excited. And he certainly looked good in the part of illusionist, in that trim, finely-tailored black suit with the starched high collar, red tie, and top hat—perfect for dramatic flourishes and the prerequisite rabbit.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, my lovely assistant will place her fair life into my very hands. I will have mere moments to free her from her bonds before she will drop—”

—the spotlight illuminated a frothing tank full of flashing scales and teeth—

“—into this deadly tank full of voracious creatures! La Belle Rose, are you ready?”

“Absolutely, Dr. Smith,” she said boldly, with a hint of defiance and sauce.

“And do you trust me?”

“Always.” The grin she flashed wasn't meant for the breathless audience.

The pulley creaked slightly as the hook and rope lowered from the ceiling. Less than a minute later and the affair was winched upwards again, with Rose Tyler hanging precariously from her chains. 

For several heartbeats there was total silence as everyone in the audience bit their lips and chewed their fingernails and dared not blink. Rose tightened her grip on a very specific section of the chain, took a deep breath, and flashed a dazzling smile. 

“And with a wave of my hand…” said the illusionist. “…I free you!”

There was a sharp noise not unlike an angry bee, the incredibly loud click of a padlock disengaging, and then the splashing of metal falling into piranha-infested water. 

And there was La Belle Rose, coolly hanging from the chain still around the hook with one arm while she waved with the other. The creaking of the pulley as she was lowered was drowned out by the riotous applause of the audience.

The illusionist took his assistant’s hand and the pair bowed graciously in the face of exuberant admiration.

“Quite ingenious,” murmured one dark-hatted gentleman in the fourth row.

“Hmm? Did you say something, old boy?” demanded his companion, whose eyes had hardly left the glittering figure that was La Belle Rose since she had stepped onto stage an hour previous.

“I’ve an inkling as to how he managed it,” the man replied. “But I _must_ see it for myself. Come, Watson. I sense a new game afoot.”

\---

“So, Doctor,” Rose said as she undid her bun and shook out her hair, combing through it with her fingers. “Do you think we’ll finally get an invitation?”

“I have it on good authority—”

“Whose authority?”

“Sibyl’s. You know, the cloakroom attendant.” He blinked for a moment at her, the picture of nonplussed innocence, before unknotting his tie. “According to Sibyl, he reserved a seat for tonight’s performance—apparently our reputation has finally attracted his interest.” 

“Well, let’s just hope that he actually picked up his ticket from _Sibyl_ ,” Rose said pointedly, lifting her hair away from her neck. “Can you get this middle button for me? I swear, it’s impossible to bend your arms back far enough to reach that spot.”

“Not impossible, only improbable,” said a voice from the doorway. 

The pair looked up with a degree of the-kids-caught-with-their-hands-in-the-cookie-jar brand of guilty surprise. The dark man in the doorway simply flashed a wide smile and stepped into the room, swinging a polished mahogany walking stick. There was another man behind him in a brown suit and matching bowler hat, leaning heavily on a practical black cane.

“Apologies for our intrusion,” the first man said smoothly, glancing over the assorted makeup canisters and perfume bottles on the dressing table. “The door was ajar and I couldn’t help but catch your conversation. Most unusual, for a master of legerdemain to _share_ a dressing room with his fetching female assistant.”

“Cutbacks,” the Doctor said breezily. “You know how these theatres can be. So stingy with their space. Is there something we can help you with, Mr…”

“Holmes,” he supplied readily. “Sherlock Holmes. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Dr. Smith. And yours, Miss Rose. What _is_ your last name, if I may?”

“Tyler,” she said, recollecting her thoughts. “I’m sorry, but did you say _Sherlock_ Holmes?”

“Quite clearly, I believe. And my associate and partner, Dr. John Watson; I’m sure you’re familiar with the name.”

“Dare say we are!” the Doctor said with a brilliant smile of barely suppressed jubilation. “Dr. Watson, what a pleasure, really.” He seized the quiet doctor’s hand and pumped it vigorously. “Blimey, what a night this has been!”

“That was quite a performance,” Watson said, retrieving his hand and flexing the life back into his fingers. “The finale was especially thrilling.”

“Yes, I know,” the Doctor said modestly. “We like to give people a real bang for their buck—no spectator goes off unsatisfied and all that.”

“I was rather curious as to how you managed it,” said Holmes, raking his perceptive eyes up and down Rose in a way that made her flush and made the Doctor’s hands tighten involuntarily. “The noise, just before the chains were dropped—it was most peculiar. Very high-pitched in frequency, with an element of a boiling teapot to it.”

“Well, a magician never reveals his tricks,” the Doctor said firmly. 

“You’ve a device, I assume? Something that releases locks remotely?” Holmes said it off-handedly, with a great degree of nonchalance, but his sharp eyes were firmly on Rose’s face to catch her reaction. To her credit, she managed to keep her face smooth but for a tiny flicker of her eyelids.

“Come now, Holmes,” Watson chided. “Must you take the fun out of everything? Not everything in life must be logically explained away.”

“Oh, but what’s the fun in being hoodwinked, eh?” the Doctor said, throwing Watson off-balance. “I can understand that drive of yours, Holmes. The desire—no, the _need_ —to understand everything you possibly can.”

“You do, Dr. Smith?” Holmes turned to face him.

“Course I do. You’re a man after my own heart—” He paused for a beat, catching Rose’s eye and smiling with his eyes. “We’re birds of the same feather, you and I. When someone says it’s magic, or witchcraft, or fae beasties, we jolly well have to prove them wrong, don’t we?”

“I’ll say,” Rose muttered. “Just once I’d like to find something that really stumped you, Doctor. Something that couldn’t be explained away with science. I want it to be a real ghost or monster _just once_!”

“Shakespeare once said, ‘There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy’, but I disagree,” Holmes said firmly. “What looks to be magical and profound is often sleight of hand and trick mirrors. What is attributed to angels and demons can almost certainly be traced back to the hand of man, upon close enough examination.”

“I knew you’d be brilliant,” the Doctor said to himself, that goofy grin across his face that told Rose he had firmly locked into fanboy mode. It was funny how this regeneration could sometimes look so like the last—she’d seen the exact same expression of glazed idolization when they’d run into Dickens.

“I admit I find it surprising that you are such an outspoken defender of logic, Dr. Smith,” Holmes continued, now sizing up the Doctor with the same intensity he had turned on Rose. “Most men in your profession would rather their audiences swallow their smoke and trickery without question. I expected you to endorse the work of mediums and psychics.”

Rose caught Watson’s eye. As often happened, he’d found his attention drifting from Holmes’ circuitous reasoning and had been discreetly staring at her for some time. In his defense, he hadn’t realized what he was doing—and she _was_ incredibly eye-catching in her glittering red costume, with her blonde hair tousled over her pale shoulders. 

She moved toward him, edging around the Doctor. “Dr. Watson?”

“Oh, uh, yes?” He fidgeted with the handle of his cane to cover his embarrassment.

“…Would you like a cuppa? Knowing the Doctor, this could go all night.” 

“Tea would be lovely, thank you,” he said quickly.

“I’m afraid we’ve mislaid the saucers. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Quite alright.” He took a steadying sip. “Where are you from exactly?”

“Me? I’m from London. And the Doctor— well, the Doctor’s from a bit further away.”

“I thought I recognized the accent,” he said with a smile. “And what brings you to Germany?”

“Nothing in particular,” she said casually. “The Doctor and I like to travel. See the world. We just found ourselves here and, well, you know how life can be. What brings you here? Another unsolvable case that only Sherlock Holmes can unravel?”

“Something like that,” Watson said, sipping at his tea. “Sometimes the Yard asks us for help—smuggling, black market dealings and the kind. Holmes knows a surprising number of people in low places, and there have been some questionable machines hitting the market lately—”

“—It’s all poppycock, of course,” Holmes was saying dryly. “People see a shooting star and immediately assume creatures from other worlds are attacking.”

“Well, I was speaking more as to superstitions such as werewolves and vampires—” the Doctor replied with a touch of awkwardness.

“I swear, you two!” Rose said with an exasperated wave of her hand. “You’ve got to take all of the wonder out of life! Can’t you just leave fairy tales alone? Would that kill ya?”

A sudden scream rent the air. Watson startled, splashing tea down his jacket. Rose had barely turned toward the door before Holmes and the Doctor leaped for the handle in unison, narrowly avoiding a collision. 

The door was flung open as the pounding of feet against floorboards resounded throughout the theatre. A scantily-clad back-up dancer for the late night revue—obviously the source of the scream—was leaning against the railing of the staircase, half-fainted. At the foot of the stairs, directly in front of the dressing room door, lay a courier. 

His eyes were wide and staring, the dark hair on his head had sprung out at odd angles, and there was a sealed envelope in his hand. 

He was also very, obviously, unquestionably, dead.

“Shall we assume a theatre ghost stopped his heart in fear, Miss Tyler,” demanded Holmes wryly as he crouched down beside the body. “Or shall I look for a murderer of flesh and bone?”

\---

Less than thirty minutes later, and Rose was pressed against the Doctor in a carriage that swayed and clattered over the uneven cobblestones. Her knee bumped against Holmes’ — sitting directly across from her — with every jolt, but she was more focused on the warm pressure of the Doctor’s thigh against hers.

She was in a carriage with Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, on the way to meet Nikola Tesla.

Her head was still spinning. 

“He’s dead,” Watson had announced after a cursory examination of the courier.

“Brilliant diagnosis, doctor!” Holmes had exclaimed with an edge of sarcasm. “Care to elaborate further?”

Watson explained that it looked as though the man had died from some sort of shock. The Doctor followed up with his own examination and said that yes, an intense shock had killed the courier—it had ruptured his heart, in fact, so that the organ had literally exploded inside his chest. Rose had swallowed back a wave of nausea at the thought while the Doctor fended off Holmes’ inquiries about the curious sonic device he’d used in his examination.

“But how?” Watson demanded. “I see no explanation for such a shock. This theatre is still gaslit, and there are no exposed electrical wires about.”

“The way the blast was localized on his chest would suggest a sort of gun or cannon,” the Doctor said quickly. “A sharp burst of electrons or a sonic concussive wave could make a heart rupture like that.” He whirled on Holmes. “You’ve seen something like this before, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” Holmes said after a slight pause, as if he was still making his mind up about the Doctor’s trustworthiness. “There have been seven unexplained murders in the city within the past month. The Berlin authorities were utterly bewildered and asked the Yard for assistance. Hence our presence—Inspector Lestrade is depending on my eccentric interest in science and the good doctor’s medical expertise to help unravel this riddle.”

“Something else,” Rose spoke up as the Doctor crouched down again beside the body. “Dr. Watson, you mentioned black market machines just a moment ago.”

“Yes!” the Doctor shouted, springing up, his pointing finger zooming up to jab at Watson’s chest. “Machinery you can’t explain or understand! Complicated clockwork bits!”

“Yes, that’s correct,” Watson said, taken aback. “One of the devices was found near one of the victims. We’ve no clue as to what they do, and we can’t seem to make them work. They don’t appear to run on any fuel we’re familiar with.”

“Course not,” the Doctor said confidently. “You lot won’t have trilithium-powered mechanics for at least another, ooh, seven hundred years? In this time, the closest substitute would be a mixture of dynamite, diamond dust, coal, and steam—and _that_ would be highly unstable and inefficient. You’d be just as likely to have the weapon blow up in your hand as to have it work against your target.”

Before Holmes could launch a new line of questioning about the Doctor’s source of information, a hesitant stagehand had edged closer. “The police have been called, sirs, and should be here in a few minutes.”

“Thank you…” the Doctor looked the man up and down.

“…Stephen,” he supplied.

“Stephen! Thank you!” A sharp pat on the back, and the dazed stagehand was smoothly moved down the hall. 

“Dr. Smith, perhaps you’d like to look at the message he was delivering?” Watson suggested, holding up the envelope. The Doctor snatched it from him and tore it open avidly. Holmes remained silent, one of his expressive eyebrows arching eloquently.

“‘To Dr. Jonathan Smith and La Belle Rose,’” the Doctor read. “‘In appreciation of your incredible performance tonight, I would like to invite you both to a late supper at my rooms at the Baron von Überwald’s townhouse.’ Signed Nikola Tesla. Aha! Success!”

“Success?” Watson echoed.

“We’ve been hoping to meet with Mr. Tesla for a while,” Rose had explained.

The carriage abruptly bounced over a pothole with enough force to not only disrupt her reverie — but to also throw Rose across the Doctor’s lap. 

“Oof!” he gasped comically, helping her back into her seat, pulling strands of her pale hair from his mouth, letting his hand linger just a moment longer than necessary on the bare skin of her wrist. “I don’t often say this, but perhaps we could slow down a tad?”

“Nonsense, Dr. Smith!” Holmes said animatedly, staring out the window at the blur of passing buildings. “Only two more blocks to the Baron’s townhouse. We’ve got a solid lead—to waste time would be illogical.”

“That’s very Spock,” Rose murmured for the Doctor’s ears only. It really was the little things that made life worth living: sharing pop culture references with someone who gets them, sideways smiles, high-speed carriage rides with Sherlock Holmes, and the pressure of a Time Lord’s hand against your knee.

\---

Of course, it was the little things that could kill you, too. Little things like miniature concussive sonic cannons attached to the arms of robotic men.

“Why am I not surprised that it’s the butler?” the Doctor said as they backed away slowly, hands held up in surrender. “Why is it _always_ the butler?”

“Holmes, this is usually when you have one of your fortuitous brainwaves,” Watson murmured.

“Indeed. Well, let’s go over the facts: Tesla was summoned here from America by a certain Baron von Überwald. Becoming suspicious of the Baron, who had been steadily curbing his movements and contact with the outside world, Tesla managed to smuggle out an invitation to Dr. Smith in the hopes that the reputed master of escape could enter the Baron’s house without suspicion, be informed of the situation, and then exit undetected to alert the authorities.”

“Perhaps we could bypass the obvious and get straight to the escaping?” Nikola Tesla suggested, a bead of sweat trickling past his black moustache.

“Holmes has a method,” Watson explained. “First the monologuing, then the clever escape from the noose.”

“Huh, that sounds familiar,” Rose murmured.

Holmes went on as if he had never been interrupted. “Of course, the robotic assassin disposed of the unfortunate carrier of that missive—but luckily for all of us, the assassin hadn’t been given specific orders to retrieve the message and left it for the intended recipient to find.

“Now, according to the papers you found whilst rummaging in the study after dinner, Watson, the Baron has been experimenting with thought-control technology far beyond today’s science—technology that he has apparently been using against unsuspecting Mr. Tesla, who has been constructing these mechanical assassins and sonic guns in his sleep.”

“Me?” Tesla demanded, wide-eyed. “Are you saying _I_ created this automaton?”

“Absolutely,” said Holmes.

“Maybe you could deactivate it,” Rose suggested quickly. “Remember how to turn him off?”

“Unlikely,” the Doctor said. “No doubt there’s a lock on those memories; a sort of fail-safe or redundancy to prevent just such a thing from happening. Trying too hard to break through that lock would most likely result in neural damage.”

“Yes, yes, alright,” Watson said, swallowing nervously. The butler was still advancing, and there were only a few scant feet between their backs and the wall. 

“Well,” the Doctor drawled, one eyebrow arched as the cocky grin Rose knew so well began to creep across his face. “Hawkins, innit? That was the name you were given, yeah?”

The butler paused, his extremely lifelike face twitching as if in thought. It was doubly disconcerting with the large crack that split his forehead open to reveal the whirring cogs and wheels beneath. “Yes, sir.”

“Did your master tell you what it is I’m known for? Me’n Rose, I mean.”

“Illusionism, sir,” Hawkins said in the perfectly plummy, modulated tones of an aristocratic British manservant.

“That’s it, bang on in one,” the Doctor grinned. “Would you like to see a trick, Hawkins?” 

“I would not like or dislike to, sir,” Hawkins replied stolidly. “I have not the capacity for such emotion.”

“Well then, what’s the harm in a final performance? If we’re going to go out, might as well go out with a bang, eh?” The Doctor dropped his hands sharply. There was a loud pop as the smoke pellet struck the rug at the robot’s feet, and in the confusion of smoke and noise everyone moved.

Watson thrust out with his cane, knocking aside the cannon (and the arm it was attached to) before the butler could fire at the Doctor. Holmes threw the jacket that had been hanging over his arm into Hawkins’ face just as Tesla tackled the robot and the Doctor and Rose grabbed hold of the rug beneath its feet and pulled.

Twenty seconds later the smoke was clearing and the group was collecting themselves, struggling to catch their breath as they coughed from the smoke. The Doctor had retrieved his screwdriver from Hawkins’ coat pocket and was deactivating the cannon while Rose helped Tesla to his feet.

“I’m glad that worked,” the Doctor said. “It would have been so embarrassing to be killed by a wind-up butler.”

\---

“You know, a lot of people thought Tesla was something of a mad scientist,” the Doctor said as they made their way back to the TARDIS, her arm through his. The streets were entirely deserted this early in the morning, and the moon was beginning to fade in the ghostly pre-dawn light. “He had incredible, brilliant, bizarre ideas. A true visionary and genius, yeah, but when you talk about creating machines that could blow up the world or teleport people through space, it can be a bit difficult to get people to take you seriously.”

“He’s going to be okay, though, right?” Rose asked, squeezing his arm. “What that Baron did to him isn’t going to hurt him?”

He glanced down and met her eyes. “Course not. Sure, there are going to be a few walls inside his head that he’ll never be able to breach. But maybe that’s what made him great, eh? Made him keep pushing himself to greater heights and discoveries. Tesla always claimed that his greatest inventions came to him in stunning bursts of clarity—he could see every detail of his creations before he’d ever started working on them. Called them his 'insights'.”

“And what about the Baron?”

“Now _that_ is the real question. I suspect he’s from Benton Ares—a remarkable planet, much like this one only full of steam-powered airships and abseiling gloves and space pirates.” He grinned at her. “Good thing I slipped a locator on him before he ordered Hawkins to kill us…”

“Space pirates?” Rose said excitedly. “Oh, Doctor, please tell me we’re going to Benton Ares!”

“As long as you don’t mind wearing that dress a bit longer.”

“I’ll wear it as long as you want me to, Doctor,” she said cheekily, laughing at the way his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed. “Oh, and Doctor?”

“Yes?”

“We just met Sherlock Holmes! I swear, I’ll never get tired of this life with you.”

“Never?”

“Not ever. Now come on; you’ve promised me space pirates!”


End file.
